My wife names spiders. She hates most insects, but tolerates spiders. (Mostly because I told her that they eat insects, I think.) To get past the whole, “has more than four legs ∴ not cute,” thing, she gives them names. The first jumping spider we had in our new apartment was a little black fellow with white pedipalps that she called Pete, after Peter Parker. Later, we had a similarly colored but bigger guest, Nathan. We’d been watching Heroes. Peter Petrelli’s big brother on the show is Nathan. Her naming scheme is a study in random association.
After that, we had Charlie (little, hairy, cute, but probably not a brilliant mathematician) and a big vaguely creepy one she didn’t like that she named Sylar.
I found some photos of jumping spiders that are really quite cool, and wanted to show them to her. Unfortunately, she still didn’t think spiders were very cuddly. I think her exact words were, “What the hell?! I don’t want to look at those. Get that out of here!”
Oh well. At least she names the spiders instead of asking me to flush them down the toilet like the other arthropods that are unlucky enough to run around in the open, where she has ready access to cockroach nerve gas and is gleefully willing to use it.